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in plain air 203
There's Giles again, the lanky fellow who,
Working toward a Ph.D. in Greek,
Likes girls (and always runs with one, a sleek
Beauty at that, mirabile dictu).
-- But there's one running because she was told to
By Runner's World. And some journalist has the cheek
To call on us to go, seek out the weak
And sick and scorned: we happy running few ...
Loneliness is not possible for this
Long distance runner; I spend my mother wit
Dodging the latest book you dare not miss,
This goddamned merchandiser plucks my sleeve,
Holistic priests approach -- I bob and weave,
I detour past the bull- and the horseshit.
rebecca mae
After the loud storm she lay off shore low
In the water, grating on rocks. Then a huge wave
Beached her and she looked good enough to save,
Engine and all. Half sunk in sand now, though.
All of us eye her as we come and go,
Runners and saunterers. But she never gave
When kids tried prying her from her half grave.
Soon her name's under. Just her gunnels show.
Still the big seas aren't done with her. One day
We fi nd her resurrected, all the way
Past the next point, then later scattered out
Against the cliff , till her last splinter's under
The sand we pad on; now a well-buried boat
To muse on running through the water-thunder.